


The Sail is Made of Scabs and Dynamite

by easyforpauline



Series: an early name used for videophones [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blindfolds (sort of), Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Gags, Humiliation, M/M, Name-Calling, Oral Fingering, Painplay, Photography, Pinching, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, chemical play, corner time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28837068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easyforpauline/pseuds/easyforpauline
Summary: What began life as a paper sack from the liquor store down the street only encountered scissors a single time, for the mouth hole: one, circled in lavender lipstick. Glitter glue, copious and lake-blue, spells out DUNCE in cinderblocky font, and curlicues elsewhere into a blizzard of cartoony hearts; Bucky’ll be shocked if the bag’s not sticky with fuckingsapwhen it touches his skin.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: an early name used for videophones [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/502081
Comments: 33
Kudos: 62





	The Sail is Made of Scabs and Dynamite

**Author's Note:**

> here's to hoping that the the dam that broke when i wrote this in a sudden outpouring today and yesterday signals that my fic-writing ability in general has returned to me and my WIPs can be unabandoned :) but if not and they stay abandoned for a while--still hope u all enjoy.

Steve, in all his graciousness, grants Bucky one solid eyeballing of the bag before it’s slid down over his head, therefore shelving his ability to eyeball squat. Because the thing’s got, as requested, eyeholes: a whole zero. What began life as a paper sack from the liquor store down the street only encountered scissors a single time, for the mouth hole: one, circled in lavender lipstick. Glitter glue, copious and lake-blue, spells out DUNCE in cinderblocky font, and curlicues elsewhere into a blizzard of cartoony hearts; Bucky’ll be shocked if the bag’s not sticky with fucking _sap_ when it touches his skin. Almost like an afterthought, though undeniably anything but, the glue also forms an arrow pointing to the mouth hole, “fuck this,” somehow gone unsaid and shouted for the neighborhood to hear at the same time.

A true work of art, but that’s just the front.

Posed as he is—in his nude parade rest before a smug Steve doing something on the table-bed that’s not quite _sprawling_ but evokes the word regardless, with how his limbs are loose as Bucky’s asshole will hopefully be any day now, in contrast to the firm-set shoulders Bucky’s sporting, his tensed calves and thighs, his hands clasped at the small of his back—Bucky can’t make a dainty little _turn, please_ gesture with a spin of his finger. Can’t talk either, per the balled-up socks wedged between his teeth.

 _Clean,_ Steve had assured him, whispering into his ear, before in they went. _Just not so much interested in your lip right now. I’ve got other concerns._ These concerns were identified with a healthy pinch of Bucky’s ass. The socks, of course, stifled his squeak.

So he settles for gesturing with his whole head, swinging it wide like a revolving planet or showy dance partner, and ending the display with one raised eyebrow to approximate _please._ With a fond smile, Steve flips the bag over. One the backside, in red glitter this time, are the words, “I misbehaved!” Frowny faces swarm the text like mosquitoes to a blood bank.

In a lava-surge rush, Bucky’s face heats. Must be red enough to match the glue and also, you know, his ass, which he can’t quite feel, endorphins running loose on the playground of his body and yelling so loud as to drown out the knife-edge ache the wooden spatula worked into him not long ago, or the needy jerk and drool of his dick (ongoing). His sexier senses are muffled beneath a warm weighted blanket of _all is right with the world._

Until Steve decides, of course, that it’s time to wake those bits of him back up. Decides that daylight’s wasting.

And at Bucky’s little approving nod, they’re off once more. Intermission over. _Everybody! Hustle back to your seats with your snacks from the concession stand!_

“Yeah, I thought you’d like it, dummy,” Steve murmurs, standing so they’re toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose. Steve lifts the fronts of his boots one by one, experimenting with resting them on the tops of Bucky’s bare feet before backing off. They’re so close Bucky’s dick smears a line of wet on the hem of Steve’s ratty MoMA sweatshirt. Steve _tsk_ s without even looking down. Eyes boring into Bucky’s, he says, “You _will_ be cleaning that up, you know. And I expect high-quality dry-cleaning services. Only the best from my property, right?”

A laugh jumps up Bucky’s throat and he nearly gags from its collision with the socks, but nods eagerly. His lips flex around the socks, begging, and Steve’s eyes roll. His heavy sigh smells like bubblegum toothpaste and cinnamon whiskey. But he obliges, lips opening wide and pressing, spiderweb-delicately, to the stopped-up spectacle of Bucky’s own mouth for one long moment. A fleeting, bright, precious thing. A firefly cupped between palms.

Then the firefly flies away with Steve’s snort. He tugs the socks free. A string of drool follows, but neither of them pay it any mind as he tosses the cactus-print ball of spit-soaked cotton-poly-blend over his shoulder like salt.

On instinct, Bucky gulps hungrily at the air. Works his stiff jaw. But can’t do much about the drool running down his chin, since he’s being obedient, keeping his hands exactly where Steve ordered them to go after shoving Bucky off his lap in a heap unceremonious as the piled laundry by the desk. Steve’s got it, though. Work-rough finger running up Bucky’s stubbly chin, collecting saliva and then slipping between his lips lengthwise, like a bit gag.

“Dropped this,” Steve tells him, and Bucky gratefully works at the finger-bit with lips and tongue, swallowing his spit down hard. “And while we’re at it—” His hand covers the top of Bucky’s skull, squashing the two buns carefully pinned high up there, pushing him to his knees with a patella-bruising _thunk._ This puts him at eye-level with the mild mess his dick made of Steve’s shirt. The hand that pushed stays holding him in place, but Steve’s other hand fists the sweatshirt, pulling it away from his torso, an offering. “Be a good little drycleaner slut and get your filth off me.”

Bucky extends his tongue, but no. The hand on his hair switches to yanking in clear reprimand. “Nah, I don’t want you to lick. Let’s see you suck.”

“Don’t I always suck?” Another yank.

“What’d I say earlier about that lip? Yes, you do, but you know what I meant. So be a good boy and hoover.”

In Steve’s grip, the fabric’s bunched and warped enough that it’s not too much struggle to take it in his mouth, though he has to employ teeth, in a way that would end badly in a more traditional fellatio situation, in order to maintain his grip. Hollow-cheeked, he sucks intently, and worships the material with his tongue, savoring the combined, thick, bodily tastes of pre-come and cotton and a hint of Steve’s sweat. His eyes flutter shut. He moans around the wet-and-growing-wetter clump in his mouth. His heels dig hard into his beaten ass and pull at the skin, lighting it up, and Steve’s fist still periodically pulls at his hair as he tells Bucky, “There we go,” and, “That’s what I want,” so hot, pure slivers of _goodhurtsthankyou_ shoot through him from top to bottom and bottom to top. His empty hole clenches tight and his dick twitches, hips flex. Good chance he’s leaving a puddle on the floor. And maybe Steve will make him lick that up too.

But when finally the hair-pulling turns to petting and the hand feeding him wet cotton pries it from his lips—he chases after, unthinkingly, has to be slapped hard across the face, which makes a grin bloom big as the likely handprint—Steve’s all business.

In other words, he reaches behind him to the table-bed, and gets the bag. “Okay, boy,” he says. “Up up up. It’s corner time for naughty dunces.” And he pulls the bag over Bucky’s head, so the world is a uniform grey-brown shot through with faint light, the loud whisper of his hair shifting against paper, and a smell that makes him think of schoolbooks, though the floral scent of the mouth hole’s lipstick also permeates.  
  
Steve coos, “Aw, you look so cute when I can’t see your ugly mug. Feel good, blockhead?”

“Baghead, Steve.” His own breath is a hot cloud of cinnamon whiskey in the bag with him, trapped by how the mouth hole falls closer to his chin than his real, non-lavender lips.

Steve pinches his sore ass, really digging in, and Bucky yelps. “They’re not mutually exclusive. And no need to yell. It’s a paper bag, not Fort Knox.”

“Sorry, Steve.”

“Yeah, I should hope so. Now just stand there a sec, yeah?”

Bucky stands. Listening to his own breath and heart and the creaks of the floorboards as Steve crosses to the desk, where Bucky knows he conspicuously left their new polaroid camera.

“Okay,” Steve says under his breath, and then, coming closer, for Bucky, “Say cheese!”

“Ch—”

“No, wait. That’s not thematically appropriate.”

“And what is, pray tell?”

“Say, ‘Pinch me.’”

“Pinch m—Ow!” A click. The camera goes off.

“Say, ‘Pinch me!’”

“Pinch me! Jesus fucking—” That pinch was on his inner thigh, so close to his balls, that he almost doubles over protectively, but catches himself. A click. The camera goes off.

And again, and again, Bucky asking to be pinched, and Steve obliging, moving in a circle around him so as to get every angle of his glitter-glued and spatula-spanked work of art.

Finally, Steve comes closecloseclose again. His wet, balled-up sweatshirt hem is cool and gross-feeling where it brushes Bucky’s dick. He says, “Say, ‘Use me,’” which, of course, always.

Bucky says, “Use me, please, Steve,” and Steve sticks two fingers through the bag’s mouth hole, shifting the whole thing so the opening lines up better with _Bucky’s_ opening, and fucks his fingers between Bucky’s lips, which close around him carefully, tongue circling the thick intrusion, good, salty skin with a hint of soapiness, and the camera clicks again, very close to Bucky’s face.

“Okay,” Steve whispers, drawing out his fingers, wiping off the excess saliva on one of Bucky’s nipples so he flinches with pleasure. “Now, like I said: corner time for naughty dunces.” His hand comes to rest at the small of Bucky’s back, over the flesh and metal clasped hands, and he uses that to steer Bucky in the direction of the corner. They had to push the Pac-Man machine out of the way to make room, and Bucky appreciates being guided around its bulk, the mental floorplan of his own bedroom all out of whack. And appreciates even more, the squeeze Steve gives his hands as he pushes him the final foot toward where the walls meet, kissing sharply.

“Tip your head forward. I want your forehead touching the wall through the bag. Yeah, good boy, like that. Now push your ass out. More. Arch your back and spread your legs. Yeah, that’s right. Now, the photos are curing on the table, so don’t go climbing on top of it and ruining them.”

“Why would I get on the table?” Bucky asks the corner. “Did you _tell_ me to get on the table? You told me to get in the corner. And I thought _I_ had memory problems.”

Clucking his tongue, Steve snakes a hand between Bucky’s chest and the wall and tweaks his nipples, each in turn, quick and with nails, like the snaky hand’s biting, a fierce and piercing pain, and those fangs must be venomous, with how Bucky instantly goes weak at the knees. But he stays in place, stays good. “No, I _didn’t_ tell you to get on the table. But as this says—” He raps gently on the back of the paper bag—“you already misbehaved once today. Now I’ve got my eye on you.”

“I was entrapped!”

“Sure you were, sweetheart. Save it for the judge.”

“Judge? Who’s the judge of me if it ain’t you?”

A hum. Then Steve is pressed tight to his back, jeans sandpapery against his raw ass and thighs, Bucky’s hands squashed between the rock and hard place of his own spine and Steve’s abs. Steve’s arms circle his stomach, his head dips low to kiss Bucky’s neck before it disappears into the bag, and he says, “You say the most romantic things,” and grabs for Bucky’s dick, gifts it a few tight yanks and a brush of his thumb over the head, so Bucky’s gasping, breath and guts as one compound creature pulled tight and strummed like banjo strings.

“Well, it’s almost Valentine’s,” he squeaks, and Steve laughs into the next kiss he gives, this one to Bucky’s left shoulder, which registers as barely-there pressure but perfect regardless. His hold on Bucky’s dick slackens, and that hand moves upward, into the tight space of the corner, two fingers slipping into the lipsticked hole, and Bucky manages to get out another appropriate, “Use me,” before he’s silenced and told to, “Suck. Get them nice and wet. I don’t want to waste too much lube on you.”

Bucky does. Closes his eyes and lets himself get lost in the sensation of his mouth tightening around Steve, his tongue and cheeks rhythmically flexing their muscularity, the narrow cave of his mouth flooding with spit. Steve’s hips shift, and the back of Bucky’s brain remembers his back _side,_ the rainbow of bruises that will flower there soon, which just makes his mouth water more.

“Good enough,” Steve says, and frees his fingers with a quiet _pop._ “Now.” He backs up maybe a step or two. “Take these hands that have been so sufficiently well-behaved—” Each gets a tap to the thumb—”And spread yourself for me.”

Bucky hisses as his fingers press into his punished flesh; Steve had been sure to spread him open during his beating and get him all along his crack, leaving no inch of flesh pale or pain-free; and he pulls. Feels his hole clench instinctively in response to the new exposure and forces himself to relax even as blood flows to his groin in response to the promise of what’s to come. He hears Steve kneel down behind him, feels his breath on his hole and says, “Eep,” to which Steve says, “My little cartoon victim,” and brushes a cool, spitty fingertip against his asshole. Circles it gently, then pushes in. A slow breaching.

The saliva’s not enough—There’s roughness, and a burn, and then—something unscrewing. The sharp scent of IcyHot, and Steve’s finger exits. When it comes back, it’s wetted up with what must be balm, and shoves in with a little less ceremony. As if its just depositing the glob of IcyHot inside Bucky, pushing letters through a mail slot.

At first, there’s nothing. Sticky-invaded-cool, but really, nothing, and then it’s like kindling catching when you build a campfire. And it spreads, and spreads, and Steve comes back with two coated fingers, fucking them into him and cooing, “Yeah? That feel good in your little hole, Buck?”

“Y—Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes.” His face burns inside the bag, fierce as the balm. “It feels good in my little hole.”

“Cute. But that’s a problem.” His fingers twist and hook and—Yes, he hits Bucky’s prostate, taps at it, makes him squirm as he tries to maintain his position through the sparklers going off in his gut. “This isn’t supposed to feel good. I seem to remember that you’re being punished.”

“Y—Yeah. For my grievous crimes.”

“Exactly. Guess we need more drastic measures.” His fingers disappear, but the heat they leave behind is all-consuming. Bucky feels like a highway with cars roaring over him. Flattened and busy, weighed-down and sun-baked and a permanent fixture of the world. And who knows—He could be! He’s got a bag over his head, after all. Anything could be happening out there. But mostly, he’s close to coming just from this, maybe. That’s the primary big thing happening in the world, his orgasm creeping in.

To make matters worse, Steve stands and rubs at his nipples with fingers still IcyHot-dampened. Again, it’s nothing at first, but when Steve gets to pulling and pinching at his nipples, the monster wakes up. His tits are like two candles. “Jesus fucking hell, Steven,” he says, and Steve says, “Don’t make me wash your mouth out on top of everything else.”

“Would _never_ dream of such a thing.”

“Good. Dreaming’s for people. Not bad little fucktoys. Hang out here a second.”

His footsteps cross to the table-bed. Bucky stays, back arched, head bowed, ass spread, his nipples and his asshole both on cool fire, biting his lip inside the bag and seeing only dark. He flexes his hands, digging his fingers in a little harder, to revive the burn in the flesh of his ass too, and sinks into the feeling like into a lavender-scented bubble bath.

“Okay, really say, ‘Cheese,’ this time,” Steve says, and Bucky’s feeling too dumb to talk back about it. Just says, “Cheese,” full-on instead of trying to formulate some kind of joke about the hackneyed cheese fest that was Steve’s movies. A click. A click. A whole forest of clicks and Steve apparently gets him at every angle, footsteps moving this way and that, capturing the bad little fucktoy on display in the corner, ass red and hole hot and not allowed to have a face because that’s not the point of him.

“Perfect,” Steve finally determines, and when he comes back, it’s not a camera in his hand. The spatula’s slotted head presses firmly into the underside of Bucky’s asscheek, lifting it. “You know what I’m gonna do with this?”

“Flip eggs?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. I’m gonna flip your eggs. No, numbskull. And I’m not gonna spank you like this either.”

“Then—”

“You’re keeping your hole showing for me. So I can do this.” And the slim handle of the spatula comes to rest between his cheeks, against his hole, intimating the pain to come.

“Steve—”

“Yeah?”

“Please. Hurt me.”

“Oh, any time, honey. You know I like to help out.” The first strike is gentle, Steve learning on the job, though a sting still thrills through Bucky. The phone line between his ass and his dick still floods with excited chatter. Then another hit, harder, garbling his breath in his throat, and another the same strength. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, and it’s tempting to let go of his cheeks. Everything in him says he should except for his traitorous _need._ And what Steve says, “Gonna hurt this needy little hole just how it deserves, right? Because that’s what naughty dunces get. You know why?”

“Um? Ah— _Fuck._ Steve I’m so—”

“Not an answer, dummy.”

“Because I—I deserve it. Because I need it.”

“Yeah. And ‘cause you’re mine. And I want my things to learn to be good.”

Another strike, harder, and Bucky howls, clenches, which makes the IcyHot sit up and start howling its own heat, and then Steve turns to just tapping, over and over, practiced flicks of the wrist, and with each touchdown of the handle, Bucky’s breath skips, and he really, really—

“Steve, I’m gonna fucking come.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” and with one big smack of his hand to the sensitive back of Bucky’s thigh, he pulls Bucky out of the corner with a hand on the shoulder, and says, “Lie down. Down, down.”

“Down, down, baby, down by the fucking rollercoaster,” Bucky murmurs, and lets himself be manhandled into lying on the floor on his back, spread out, his hands removed from holding his ass open and instead placed above his head as though tied there, as though he’s a damsel in distress, _little cartoon victim,_ and before he knows what’s hit him, Steve’s mouth is on his dick, a different heat then what permeates his whole ass, wet and welcoming, and in seconds, his orgasm is _yanked_ from him. It’s like losing a game of tug-of-war, falling back into the mud, spent and used-up, spread beneath the gloating enemy and the sun.

His mouth is already slack when Steve’s fingers poke through the mouthhole, readjusting it to line up perfectly with his lips, and taps at his cheek. But he opens his mouth wider, and through the hole, Steve spits a mouthful of come into his mouth and tells him, “Don’t swallow.”

Footsteps. Footsteps. Another click of the camera, so close to his face. And then Steve pulling the bag off his head so sudden he hears it rip. And one more click of the camera, of his sweaty, blown-pupils, mouth-full-of-come face. Steve says, “Okay, you can swallow,” puts the camera and the photo it spits out (more daintily than spitting come) aside, and kisses him hard, whole body on top of him, pressing him into the floor. Bucky swallows with a grimace and kisses back weakly.

When Steve lets up, it’s to ask, “You learn your lesson?”

“I was _entrapped.”_ But his voice is weak as his kiss.

“Yeah, exactly. Don’t marry bad men who entrap you, was the lesson.”

“Oh.” Bucky giggles. “Then no, I didn’t learn that at all.”

“Well, that’s why we’ve got so many photos. To serve as reminders so you learn.” They’re actually for Steve’s own personal scrapbook, but why quibble over details?

“I’m a dunce, baby,” Bucky says, and kisses the dry tip of Steve’s nose. “I don’t plan on learning shit.”


End file.
